Coldest Home
by Liebchen-chan
Summary: It's not like Russia doesn't like living. But sometimes, it's so tempting to bow out and disappear.


Coldest Home

It's not that Russia can't stand the loneliness. He's used to it by now, the constant push and pull at his heart. A heart that he wishes he could lock away forever. So no one could break it in to pieces. So the pain would end.

It's been getting so much worse, since they all left. Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania. Especially Lithuania. Somehow, he had grown attached to all of them. Was happy when he came home, worn and tired from battles and they were there, a little, fragile family. They would always wait for him, with shaky smiles and soft questions.

They had been scared, no doubt. Some of the smiles had been born out of that belief that, if they didn't smile, he would beat them. But Russia didn't do that often. He wasn't a saint. But sometimes, they needed to be punished. So they wouldn't forget what it was like to suffer.

And then they had left, left him all alone with his broken heart, filled with cold and despair and so much pain. He was bitter, at first. How dare they leave, after all he had done for them! He had given them everything they needed.

But the bitterness didn't last long, the glaring flare of emotions fading into a dull throbbing until it was just another scar on his heart. On his self. One more didn't matter, he told himself. More would follow later. It was a small price to pay if their absence would remind him that he shouldn't trust anyone other than himself.

And he falls deeper into his despair and madness. He's trying, trying so hard for his people who have nothing but resentment for him. But all he ever wanted was to make them happy. To see them smile. But he stops caring after a while, their anger fading into the background like the voices that come and go. He'll just keep doing what he can to make their lives as easy as he can.

But he's somehow still torn from all those wars, still not feeling complete. Helpless. Powerless. Mind you, Russia wasn't weak. He was still a force to be reckoned with. But he somehow felt like he was clinging to the glorious days of the past. He felt so weak compared to who and what he was back then.

His house was so empty. Devoid of the soft voices and hushed laughter that used to fill the rooms so long ago.

Russia was tethering on the edge, close to falling even deeper into the mingled webs of his mind. He didn't know when it started but suddenly, he found himself wandering through his home. Phones unplugged. All the doors leading inside his house locked. It didn't matter that his food was starting to rot and he had nothing but vodka left to drink. He felt like a ghost in his own house, haunted by the shadow of the coldest general. The one that he owed his soul to. He missed meetings with the other nations. Didn't even notice the pounding at his front door. He just curled up and closed his eyes and plugged his ears, deaf and blind to the world outside. Blissful silence. It was like he was covered by snow, the cold substance separating him from reality. Russia knew that he would have to get up at one point. But not right now. Just a few more hours, he kept telling himself.

When he came into touch with reality again, he was lying on the cold wooden floor of his living room. He could tell that his body temperature was low, even for him. There were voices coming from somewhere and something told Russia that he would have to sit up or he would end up getting killed, his people finally rising to finish him off.

But then he heard that horribly bright voice. He would know that voice anywhere. America.

And before Russia could roll over, get up to greet his guest, he was already by his side, unbelievable warm fingers touching his could cheeks, shaking his shoulders until Russia opened his eyes to give the other a weary look. America looked worried, he noticed, blue eyes giving away what he felt. Like always. Their relationship was a complicated one. They couldn't live with each other but somehow not without each other.

The next few minutes were a blur until Russia found himself lying in his bed, wrapped in blankets and holding a cup of hot chocolate. He was somewhat surprised that America knew how to make that. He had even added some vodka. England would have been proud of his once-charge.

And then the blond nation had started babbling about helping Russia back up, would help him get strong again. A superpower. Russia had wanted to laugh. Laugh until his voice cracked and his throat raw. But instead, he listened. Quietly, with a small smile on his face. That's why he had been so torn. It was America's fault again. For trying to be a hero, even when he had his own problems. Such a silly nation. Always a bother, sticking his nose where it didn't belong.

But somehow, when America offered a hand to him, waiting with that overly confident smile that made him so radiant (and Russia wanted to beat him silly until that radiance was gone), Russia found himself taking that hand. Just this once. Just this once, he would trust again. Maybe, it would be okay this time.

He hoped. He wished.

He dreamed.

________

You might wonder which event this is based on. Well, a couple of weeks ago, I read an article about Obama trying to get on good terms with Russia again. Offering to help him out, saying they should be friends. The Russian government went batshit over this for quite a couple of hours. As far as I know, it's still somehow uncertain if they are willing to accept the help or not.

But I took the liberty of having Russia accept the help in this fiction. I hope you enjoyed it~


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